


Fatherland

by smuttyandabsurd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Historical, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttyandabsurd/pseuds/smuttyandabsurd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the fortieth birthday of the German Democratic Republic, Ivan pays Gilbert a visit.</p><p>Russia/Prussia. Angst. Dubcon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fatherland

German Democratic Republic – Gilbert hated how pompous it sounded, and he was equally vehement against the acronym GDR. He simply refused to answer to it, which was how he came to be known by another name – East Germany.

Only Ivan called him ‘East’ in the overly-familiar way he had with his favourites. Only Ivan ever visited him in his new residence; a derelict apartment room in the heart of East Berlin, with naked orange light bulbs and grey, peeling plaster walls. His room was crammed with old-fashioned furniture. The tiled floors were always dirty, scattered with empty beer bottles, and in the kitchen the cracked refrigerator stored nothing but beer and condiments, the larder was always empty, and the sink overflowed with teetering stacks of unwashed crockery. What few possessions he had were mostly second-hand and in some state of disrepair. The television with its fiddly dials, for example, had been given to him by a charitable woman next door.

Ivan would visit him once a fortnight, smartly dressed and laden with Russian groceries for him. He would unpack them in the kitchen and put them away, with Gilbert staring mutely by the door, never once offering to help. Sometimes he simply wandered back into the living room to watch television. He ignored Ivan for the most part, and Ivan was patient with him.

Once on a visit, Ivan found the apartment empty. He was informed that Gilbert had been among those arrested the night before at a protest march near the wall. Ivan gave the order for his release, greeting Gilbert at the police station with his usual smile, but Gilbert only glowered at him.

“Let me tend to your wounds when we get home,” Ivan said, eyeing his cut lip and purpling bruises.

“Don’t bother,” Gilbert growled irritably, hands dug deep in his pockets and walking in long, striding steps, detesting Ivan for keeping his pace.

It was Gilbert’s fortieth birthday as the GDR. Ivan gazed mildly at the red banners hung down the front of the apartment block, bathing the interior in red, patriotic sunlight. He found Gilbert sitting in a drunken stupor by the window, peering through the blinds at the quiet roads, closed for the day, as the television broadcasted the advancing military parade in blaring, jingoistic volumes.

“Look at the smug bastards celebrating themselves,” Gilbert sneered, voice spiked with contempt, as on-screen the camera panned over a line of fat, balding government officials.

Ivan merely watched as Gilbert turned his glazed attention back to the bottle in his hand.

“I see you have been drinking. Have you eaten anything?”

Gilbert ignored him and raised his beer in a little toast.

“To the glory of our fatherland,” he said with a wide, mocking grin, and tossed back the drink.

Ivan set the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as Gilbert heaved himself off the window ledge. He swayed unsteadily to his feet, and took clumsy, stumbling steps towards the kitchen, crashing into the coffee table en route, sending faded periodicals and other assorted rubbish flying as he stubbed his toes against the table leg.

“ _Goddammit!_ ” he swore savagely and staggered, almost losing his balance. Ivan caught him by his arm and swung him around to his feet.

“East–” he began. He never finished, because Gilbert had grabbed him and kissed him.

Ivan jerked back reflexively, but Gilbert had his arms wrapped around Ivan’s neck, and now he pulled him forwards, pressing their foreheads together.

“You’re drunk,” Ivan said.

Gilbert let out a bark of laughter.

“So what, you won’t take advantage of a poor drunken comrade?” he taunted. Ivan could smell the alcohol on his breath, a mixture of hot, yeasty beer and cheap cider. Leaning closer, and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Bet I’m a good fuck, better even than your precious Lithuania.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his favourite, and Gilbert’s smile grew and grew. He pressed on, “Didn’t he live with America for a while? He must have done it with him, done it with the capitalist pig you hate so much.”

Those poisonous words had the desired effect. It sank and twisted like a vicious knife into flesh; he could see it in the way Ivan’s eyes darkened, the way his jaw clenched as anger rippled across his mask-like composure. Without warning, Ivan slammed him face down into the kitchen counter, twisting one of his arms into an agonising lock behind his back.

“Never speak of Toris that way to me again.”

Gilbert struggled, gasping as he tried to turn his head to side, and Ivan cruelly tightened the armlock and pushed him harder against the countertop. In spite of the heightened degree of pain, Gilbert spat, “Your _Toris_ is nothing but a capitalist whore!”

In a flash of fury, Ivan raised a hand to strike him, but stopped himself. Breathing hard, he stared into Gilbert’s bloodshot eyes, and forcibly relaxed his hand, lowering it to stroke Gilbert’s matted hair. His fingers threaded into his locks, curling so each digit wrapped around individual strands. Then he gave it a violent wrench and all but purred, “If you want a fuck that badly, comrade, I am only happy to oblige.”

“Do it!” Gilbert goaded, lips twisted in a manic grin. He hardly protested when Ivan smacked his face back onto the counter, and with a sweep of his foot spread his legs apart.

The sex was rough and brutal, conducted to the score of a perfectly co-ordinated march, of hundreds of polished boots stamping on tarmac in a uniform _clack clack clack_ rhythm. The streaming drone of patriotic slogans and an accompanying brass band blaring from the television drowned out Gilbert’s gasps and Ivan’s grunts, rising to crescendo as they reached their respective climaxes and cried, voices taut and hoarse, tightening then releasing, spent.

It was dark when Gilbert came to a groggy form of consciousness, head pounding with a crippling hangover and body aching all over. When he tried to move, it felt as if he was moving underwater from how slow and strenuous his movements were.

Something tightened around his waist and pulled him back to bed; Ivan holding him in a possessive grip, sleepily murmuring, “Go back to sleep.”

Gilbert obediently lay back down, listening to his thudding heartbeat as Ivan took his hand and laced their fingers together. His palm was warm and calloused from so much hardship. Gilbert brought their hands to his chest and nestled back against Ivan. He never saw the tender smile spreading Ivan’s lips.


End file.
